Lamentations
by rambunctiousragamuffin
Summary: When Zevran literally drags himself out of the sea only to be beset upon by undercity urchins, he is rescued by a knight in (metaphorical) shining armour.
1. She Sells

Zevran let out a low, throaty groan. It was not the fun kind, the kind that one released involuntarily during the throes of passion. Instead, it was only a groan rather than a sob, because of how dry and hoarse his throat was from all the sea-water he had just swallowed. _Well,_ he thought to himself, _at least it was merely water from the docks, and not from the canals._ He mentally shuddered at the thought, the muscles of his body too exhausted to perform even such a simple movement.

Slowly, torturously, Zevran dragged himself further from the mouth of the sea, despite the additional effort that his clothes, heavy with water, required. Once he reached a distance that he deemed to be far enough to be safe from high-tide, he collapsed, face planting into a crumbling sand dune. He did not move for the rest of the night. Nor did he move for the day after, and the night that followed.

He did not move until the moon had turned twice, and the dawn had turned into day. He only awoke when he felt a seagull pecking at his cheek. In one fluid movement, he swatted the pest away and turned from his stomach to his back. However, the harshness of the Antivan sun beating upon his brow forced him to throw an arm over his face in an attempt to shield his eyes. He could hear footsteps in the sand approaching him, but he could not bring himself to care.

He could not even bring himself to pay attention to what they were saying. Despite the sensitivity of his elven ears, all that he registered was that there were at least three separate voices, and judging by the timbre and pitch, they belonged to undercity urchins. His ears twitched as they twittered amongst themselves, arguing in hushed voices, their whispers wafting on the wind over to Zevran.

Whether he truly did not care about their approach, or simply pretended not to, the children did not know. In fact, up until he swatted the bird away and rolled over, they had thought him dead. It was not an uncommon sight in Antiva City, for a cadaver to float like flotsam and jetsam, and wash ashore. It was this revelation that caused the urchins' unrest. They had planned to pick his pockets like the seagull was planning to pick his eye socket.

One of the urchins had remembered seeing the elf with the three strange lines on his face with one of the big merchants of the city, and had told his friends, figuring that he might be a worthy quarry. There was a faint _tlot-tlot_ in the distance, signalling to the urchins that it was now or never, and that soon they wouldn't be alone. Even though they were partially obscured under a derelict bridge, and on part of the beach that was commonly abandoned, they were still worried about being caught red-handed.

Steeling himself, and taking a deep breath, the youngest of them quickly scurried across the sands to where Zevran lay, and dipped his hand into Zevran's pockets to fish around for valuables. His form required practice, Zevran would later muse to himself, though Zevran did not show any indication of being aware of what was occurring. The ever encroaching _tlot-tlot_ scared the urchin away before he could discover any of Zevrans many knives hidden upon his person, however. As the sounds of their scampering receded, Zevran was left alone.

Or at least, Zevran had thought so up until he accidentally punched another stranger. It was completely accidental, Zevran would swear when the two would joke about it later. Zevran had swung his arm from his brow and sat up, stretching languorously, his clenched fist inadvertently meeting the stranger's nethers. And once again, not in the fun way.

The stranger offered his hand to Zevran, and helped the small elf up. He was large and imposing, or, well, at least to Zevran. He was especially small even as far as elves go. He was also standing upon the crumbling sand dune on which Zevran had face-planted two turns of the moon prior, leaning over the small elf.

* * *

No words were exchanged between them, yet somehow Zevran found himself laughing over a bottle of fine Antivan brandy in front of a roaring fire with the stranger from the beach. The stranger had sneezed as he took a swig directly from the bottle, spraying his mouthful at the fire. The high alcohol content of the brandy had caused it to promptly ignite. The sputtering flames caught the hem of Zevran's breeches that were hanging by the fire to dry.

Before long, Zevran's breeches were completely engulfed and charred bits began to fall to the floor, dancing on the small air currents produced by the flickering larger fire. One of the charred remnants landed on Zevran's foot, but the unseasonably cold night air had sapped all warmth from it. He reached over to pick it up, his hand shaking with his laughter. He brought the ruined scrap of cloth to his face, and held it up with both hands over his eyes as though a mask.

His drinking companion let out a derisive snort and rolled his eyes bemusedly before taking another swig of brandy. This time was far more successful, and he felt the brandy coat his tongue and the sides of his mouth before leaving a blazing trail down his throat upon its descent. He extended his arm to Zevran, gesturing for the elf to also take a sip. Zevran dropped his hands, allowing the makeshift mask to fall once again to the floor and reached across to the proffered bottle.

Unlike the stranger with whom he found himself enjoying it with, Zevran was far more accustomed to the strength of Antivan brandy and had the ability to take several gulps of the harsh alcohol before feeling the burn. Even when he did begin to feel the burn, Zevran persisted, swallowing more and more of the viscous liquid. With each sip, nay, quaff, his companion's eyebrow raised ever higher until it was obscured by his fringe. Only when the bottle felt light in his hands and no more liquid spilled forth from the neck did Zevran set it down.

In response to his companion's unspoken question, Zevran shrugged noncommittally. The movement also shook his head, and he felt the room spin. Zevran grimaced inwardly. He never was a lightweight, but even the most seasoned of drinkers should never drink on an empty stomach as he had just done. He did not remember the last time that his belly had been filled with something substantial. On his most recent assignment he had not had the time for more than hard tack and jerky, the only proper meal being provided by his courteous host and quarry, and he had not eaten since then.

As if sensing Zevran's plight, the stranger stood up and wandered over to his knapsack in the corner of the ramshackle room before rummaging around. He let out a small grunt of triumph when he found what he was looking for. He forcefully thrust the waterskin into Zevran's hands before turning and sauntering out the door to descend the stairs to the main part of the inn. Zevran looked at it warily before shrugging once more and taking a long drink, the cold water quenching the fire of the brandy sitting heavy in his belly.

His companion returned shortly with a bowl of hearty stew and a hunk of tough bread, but Zevran expressed his gratitude for the charity nonetheless. With a full belly, and a warm fire, Zevran fell asleep in the hard chair clad only in his smallclothes. When he would awaken in the morning, Zevran would muse to himself that he had awoken in stranger, and more dire, circumstances in the past, and the for rest of the day until he met the crows, he would have a small spring in his step.


	2. By the Sea Whore

Zevran tossed one of his smaller knives up into the the air as he sauntered through the streets of the slums to the docks. It was only partially a mechanism to deter any potential assailants, the finesse with which he handled the sharp, pointy object a silent warning not to disgruntle him. The primary purpose that it served, however, was to provide him with a distraction, something to keep his mind occupied. It wasn't working particularly well, however, and his mind continued to wander in directions that he preferred that it would not.

Zevran's… encounter… with the Crows had not been as confrontational as he had anticipated. Sure, he had been told that he was worthless and his life was pointless and that he amounted to nothing more than a cog in the great machine of the Crows. But Zevran had found this to be strangely cathartic, almost. It provided him with a new perspective, one that was quite liberating. It was if all remaining ties to the world had been killed with… _No_, Zevran vowed to himself. No matter how much his thoughts ran away from him, he would never utter that name again.

He heard a little whimper from the gutter beside him, and Zevran turned to see from where it came.

"I… I'm s-so-sorry, messere. I m-mean' n-n-no offense. It's jus' that my ma' is about to have another baby, her fourth, and we don't have enough to buy any cloths for when it soils itself." The voice was pitifully weak and came from an impressively pitiful specimen. The child was heavily emaciated, no more than skin stretched across bones, except for where her belly was bloated and distended from her viscera pushing against her atrophied stomach muscles. Zevran almost felt pity for her, but he was distracted by musings.

His inner confusion was mirrored on his face until the realisation dawned on him. He must have inadvertently said no aloud. He shook his head vigorously from side to side as if to clear away all the doubts and regrets that were fermenting in his ruminations. It was not an Assassin's place to dwell on such things. _I must be quite a sight_, he thought to himself. _Well, more than usual. Swaggering through the slums, speaking to myself._

Zevran caught the blade of the dagger that he was tossing and offered the hilt to the urchin. She began recoiling back from him, hiding further in the gutter.

"Puh-please ff-forgive me, serah," came the pitifully weak voice once more.

"Tch, my dear. Surely, if I had wanted to kill you, I would have done so by now. You recognise the hilt, yes? So you know that I am a Crow, and that I could have killed you. Perhaps I should have. It is hardly a life to scavenge through the gutters," Zevran admonished placidly. "But ignoring the thitherto's and the wherefore's, I am simply giving you a gift, my dear."

"A… gift?" the urchin's voice sounded out the latter word dubiously, conveying her doubts in the inflection.

"Yes, a gift. If you will not take it for yourself, then perhaps for your mother. Or if her new babe is a boy, it would make a wonderful gift for your brother."

"We have no need for your gift, serah," the urchin spat.

"Tch, there is no need to be so ungrateful, my dear. If this is how you are going to thank me, then perhaps I should have killed you. One always needs a blade. But once it is yours, it is yours to do with as you wish. If you desire to sell it for nappy cloths, then that is your liberty."

The urchin begrudgingly held out her hand to grasp the hilt of the proffered dagger. One did not need to be well versed in weaponry to understand that this was well-made, and therefore expensive. Perhaps it would also fetch high enough a price for her to buy one of the sweet rolls sold in the market. She mumbled her gratitude and then scampered away, stowing the gift in her dilapidated knapsack.

Zevran watched her until she turned a corner into an alley, and then continued on his own way through the slums. Once again, his thoughts returned to the Crows, but this time they were different. This time, rather than the anger and resentment that he held towards the Crows and their Masters, there was a begrudging gratitude. Even though his conditions were… difficult, he had never gone hungry.

Or, at least hungry for long. There were indeed times when he had gone hungry as the Crow Masters had withheld food from him as a punishment. Zevran had never been the easiest to train, and he let out a chuckle at that. He saw a similar energy in the spitfire of an urchin that he just helped, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

He was smiling the rest of the way down to the docks, which wasn't that far of a journey. It faltered abruptly when he saw a figure leaning against a crate in front of the ship that was his destination. His brow furrowed in confusion. Where did he recognise that man from?

Vague memories swirled around, like mist in the sea breeze. Zevran remembered hauling himself out of the ocean, a gull attempting to make a meal out of him… being set upon by urchins not unlike the one he helped just earlier… and finally, the epiphany. Zevran recognised the other man as the stranger who had provided him with a full belly and a warm hearth. His smile returned again when he remembered the camaraderie that the two had shared the night before.

Nodding nonchalantly to the stranger, he approached.

"Ah, my friend!" Zevran greeted. "It is good to see you again. I was worried that when I awoke and you had left, that you were just a figment of a dying man's imagination."

The other man raised an eyebrow and his lips curled in wry bemusement.

"Why is that, my friend?"

"I wouldn't mind if you were the last thing that I saw, sweet thing," the ship captain chuckled from the shadows. "That being said, no funny business on my boat. You're a guest in my home, so I expect you to mind your manners." Moving from the shadows, she turned to Zevran and winked.

"That applies equally to you, Zev."

Zevran chuckled heartily and raised his palms to the air.

"Well, my dear, you know that my line of _business_ is rarely funny. I would say that death is no laughing matter." Zevran kept his face deadpan, in the mask that he had worn for so long, but his eyes glittered with laughter.

The stranger from last night let out a derisive snort before walking the gangplank onto _The Siren's Call_, and Zevran followed closely behind.


	3. Sea Sails

**AN: **Don't worry, Pitkat, that'll all be explained this chapter. (Hopefully). **/AN**

It was a very horrible, terrible, no good, _very_ bad day. It was _sunny_. There were only sparse wisps of clouds in the sky, rippled into tufts by the high-altitude winds. Not nearly enough to provide any kind of respite from the harsh, overbearing sun.

The problem wasn't that it was _hot,_ though by the Maker it most definitely was. Zevran was born and raised in Antiva, where the sun shone unbearably bright nine months of the year and uncomfortably strong the other three. He was _used_ to this kind of weather. He was lounging shirtless on a crate on the deck, in naught but thin linen britches. He would have been more than happy to just lounge around as naked as he was on his name-day, but Isabela had said that her crew would not have been… what was the colourful phrase that she used? Appreciative?

No, the worst part of today was that the sea mirrored the sky. It was a crystal blue expanse, stretching past the horizon, the occasion hunting seagull providing a smattering of white. The waves were languorously lapping at the hull of the ship, and only rarely did one splatter on the deck. The lack of tumultuousness of the waters had quelled the turbulence in Zevran's stomach.

No, the _worst_ part of today was that Zevran was _bored_. It had long been his philosophy to take his pleasures where and when he could, and this was indeed a prime opportunity. The sun was shining high in the sky, the seas were at rest. There was the occasional rancorous laughter of the crewmen at some raucous comment or another, a boisterous, over exaggerated grunt when one of them exerted themselves at their task.

But Zevran could not enjoy the serenity, the serendipity, of the moment. They had been at sea for nigh on two weeks out of their three week journey to Ferelden, and Zevran was going stir-crazy. Occasionally he could release his pent-up frustration by sparring with Isabela. There had also been times where Isabela had provided an alternate outlet for his… frustrations.

As skilled as Isabela was with her hands, his dagger work had proven superior to Isabela's time and time again. There was no _challenge_, there was no excitement. Even his couplings had proven to be rushed and out of necessity rather than _passion_. Zevran sighed.

That's why Zevran found himself pacing the deck, seemingly wearing a rut into the floorboards with his footsteps. His body was tense with anticipation. He had heard that the Grey Wardens were exceptional warriors. _They_ would provide him the respite that he sought, in more ways than one. Zevran chuckled darkly. Indeed, if all were to go to plan, it would be at the Wardens' hands that he received the ultimate respite.

But, as they said in Antiva, the best laid plans of nugs and men often go awry. Zevran would have to meticulously plan every aspect of his assignment to ensure that the optimum outcome was achieved. The optimum outcome of course being a successfully completed assignment, with his quarry liquidated. If Zevran were to fall in battle against these prime specimens, well, an honorable death would be all the better.

Zevran had gleaned that the Wardens did not travel alone. There was often a mage in their company, though Zevran had heard differing accounts. Some said it was a beautiful and deadly apostate from the swamplands to the south of Ferelden. Others said that it was a senior enchanter from the Circle Tower, with emphasis on the _senior_ aspect.

Zevran decided it would be prudent if he were to bring a mage hireling along. But Zevran would have to ensure that they would not be too well-versed in the ways of magic. It would be a shame to waste all that talent if plans were to go awry. He would begin his search for a suitable contender once _The Siren's Call_ took port in Denerim.

There was also talk that one of the Wardens' companions was a great, bloodthirsty Qunari, who had slaughtered an entire family outside of a small village in the south of Ferelden. Zevran had not heard of many who had taken on one of the warmongering giants and lived to tell the tale. So perhaps he would have to count on sheer numbers to subjugate his prize. He could hire some silver-a-dozen mercenaries when he hired his mage.

Zevran was so deeply lost in his planning that he didn't hear the footsteps of the person approaching from behind him. Out of instinct, Zevran recoiled and reached for the twin daggers that he normally kept on his back, cursing when he remembered that he had left them in his cabin that morning.

"What's this? A Crow, caught off his guard?" the playful teasing in the other man's voice instantly put Zevran at ease, and Zevran dropped his hands to his sides. Zevran snorted inelegantly.

"Tch. How do you know that it was not just a ploy to put you at ease? I could just as easily kill you with empty hands as I could with hands wrapped around my daggers."

"I believe, my friend, that if you had wanted to kill me, I would not currently be speaking these words."

Zevran stared at the other man appraisingly before shrugging noncommittally.

"I am sorry to have startled you, but I come with counsel. Whether you heed it or not is your own prerogative."

Zevran nodded brusquely as a gesture for the other man to continue.

"I do not have any platitudes to offer to you, an adage about how time heals all wounds, or any of that nug shit. Life sucks, and then you die. Just, don't throw it away on a whim. My counsel is to beseech you to think carefully, my friend."

And then he walked away, leaving Zevran to muse on his words.


End file.
